


(Too) Close to Home

by prototyping



Category: Tales of Zestiria
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, canon AU, they have a rly soft relationship and i love it ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-10-31 04:32:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17842511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prototyping/pseuds/prototyping
Summary: The boy emerging from the remains of Maotelus’ temple isn’t the same as the one who went in. [Lailah, Sorey; slight ending AU.]





	(Too) Close to Home

He looks more spent and exhausted than she’s ever seen him.

It could be the weakened slouch in his posture, the number of scrapes and cuts staining him all over, or the fact that Rose is at least half-dragging him along as he leans on her shoulder. It could be the several days he spent purifying Maotelus, which surely took its toll on his body and spirit alike.

As Lailah watches Mikleo hurry past, sliding down the slope and already preparing a healing arte for the two battered humans, she suspects it’s none of those things. At least, not totally.

She knows what misery looks like. She’s seen the face of someone broken beyond repair.

Sorey isn’t at that point, thank goodness—he can still smile, tired though it is—but even at a distance she can tell it’s empty and he isn’t all there. The boy emerging from the remains of Maotelus’ temple isn’t the same as the one who went in.

Perhaps it’s a coincidence, but for the moment that he glances over the rest of the group and his eyes meet hers, she feels a sharp twinge in her chest, deep but so quick that she almost thinks she imagines it.

Perhaps it’s a coincidence, but she doubts it.

* * *

When they arrive back in Elysia, his mask falters. The moment they emerge from the ruins’ entrance and the mountaintop village comes into view, Lailah feels that twinge worsen to a throb. She steals a sidelong glance at the others—no one else seems to have noticed—and then at Sorey. His bright eyes are dark, narrowed, and fixed on the ground. His usual smile is a tight, grim line.

When several seraphim rush to greet them, Lailah steps forward to put herself before Sorey and Mikleo. She humbly requests that the group be given rooms to rest, if they can be spared, and asks to speak with the whole clan as soon as they’re able in order to answer their questions.

“Lailah—” Sorey frowns as she turns to him; at his side Mikleo wears a solemn, calculating look. She gives them both a sad smile.

“Please get some rest, you two. You need it.”

* * *

Lailah’s feeling a blend of emotions when she finally leaves the late Lord Zenrus’ house, as many negative as positive. She’s also weary to the bone, her eyes as heavy as her sore limbs, but she makes her way to Sorey’s place, wanting to check on him first and foremost.

He’s alone and sprawled on the bed, out cold and still fully dressed. The lack of his usual snoring betrays just how exhausted he must be.

That uneasy feeling is still there, as is her concern, so Lailah descends the couple steps to his bedroom to check on him. Even asleep, his expression and body are tense. He’s still frowning, his hands fisted and his shoulders tight.

She’s hardly surprised. For having come so far and achieved so much, he lost just as much along the way.

She brushes some hair back from his face and he doesn’t so much as twitch beneath the touch. He looks much older than he did when she first met him, she thinks. At that time, she saw a young, bright-eyed, optimistic boy on the verge of adulthood. Now, she’s looking at someone aged beyond his years—a soldier battered and scarred and worn down by the selfish world he was once so eager to take in.

Her quiet sigh goes unheard. Instead of leaving, as intended, Lailah retreats inside him to rest. None of the other seraphim are there, and that convinces her to stay a while. As much as she respects his space and his need to grieve, she can’t shake the feeling that he shouldn’t be alone. Not yet.

* * *

She isn’t sure how long she sleeps, but when she wakes she feels well-rested and loads better than before. She emerges from Sorey to stand on her feet, stretching her arms out in front of her with a tired sigh and a glance at the small window. It’s nighttime, although whether it’s been half a day or two or more, she can’t say.

When she turns to check on him, she finds that he hasn’t moved. He’s still on his side, posture taut and expression solemn. With a worried hum Lailah takes a seat on the mattress edge and touches his forehead. He’s warm, but not alarmingly so.

She begins rubbing his shoulder gently, hoping to ease that tension out of him.

 _I’ll talk to him when he wakes,_ she decides. _More importantly, I’ll listen. Perhaps that’s what he needs more than anything._

But Sorey doesn’t seem to be waking anytime soon. She leans against the wall at the head of his bed, still running her hand along the top of his arm. She’s never been particularly affectionate, physically speaking, but perhaps his easy way with people has rubbed off on her.

In a small, timeless space like this, it’s difficult for her to tell how long she sits there. A couple hours, maybe. Her tender motion slows and eventually stops as her arm tires and her consciousness wavers, but her hand remains on him, protective and watchful.

That touch is what alerts her that something is wrong. The sudden absence of Sorey’s warmth stirs her from her doze and Lailah sits up straight, instinctively concerned. He’s rolled away from her, now on his back with his arms tight around his middle. His bangs look damp and cling to his forehead; his breaths are short and ragged.

“Sorey?” Lailah shifts to the middle of the bed on her knees and touches his cheek, finding it clammy. “Sorey—” She takes hold of his shoulders, but doesn’t lean too far over him—which is a wise choice, since he bolts upright a moment later. He’s gasping for breath, his whole body shaking, and without warning he gives a startled shout and tries to shrink away from her. At the same time that previous pain returns in a sudden spike between her ribs, as sharp as a physical blow and enough to take her breath away. For an instant she’s stunned and he manages to pull free of her fingers, but she recovers and quickly catches his hand.

“Sorey! Please calm down—it’s me—” He gives a surprisingly harsh tug, but this time she’s ready and doesn’t let go, even when the force nearly drags her across his lap. “ _Sorey,_ ” she repeats more loudly, “you’re alright! It was only a dream!”

His struggles weaken and slow. Lailah realizes his downcast eyes are half-lidded and unfocused. “Sorey?” When he doesn’t answer, she takes his face in her hand and gently turns him towards her. Even then, it’s several long moments before his gaze finds her and narrows in recognition, and then life flickers over his tired face.

“Lailah.” It’s a mumble, his voice thick and toneless. “What... happened?”

“It’s over,” she assures him softly, but there’s some strain in her words. She feels too warm, and breathing sends small tremors of discomfort down her sides. “The fight is over. Everyone’s alright. You’re home now.”

“Home…” His eyes drop again. His breath quickens. Lailah can’t tell whether he’s half-asleep or awake and delirious. His skin feels hotter than before, she notices.

“You’re alright, Sorey,” she says again. “You can rest now—” His expression crumbles and he breathes in sharply, shaking his head. He even pushes her hand away, but his fingers lock loosely around her wrist and he holds on, as if he can’t decide whether he wants to be near her or not. She waits for him to say something but he only hangs his head, still panting and shaking.

They stay like that for a couple minutes—Sorey fighting off some nightmare or dark thoughts, Lailah anxiously, dutifully waiting and ignoring her own discomfort. His fit eventually passes; his breathing returns to normal, his eyes open, but his frown stays and he won’t look up.

He’s finally bending beneath all that weight, she realizes. Perhaps killing Heldalf was his breaking point—or even before that, losing Zenrus, or the sacrifices he willingly made in the end. Maybe all of it. Without adrenaline and desperation urging him onward, he can only dwell on what’s left. Maybe all this idle time of rest has given him too much time to think and reflect on what he’s been suppressing. His grief, his doubt, his fears, and all the pressure of expectation that Lailah tried so hard to spare him from—he’s done so well to stand tall for as long as he has, but in the end he’s only human.

How cruel the irony that his greatest victory would be the biggest blow to his soul.

Witholding a sigh, Lailah settles her hand against his cheek again. She doesn’t try to catch his gaze this time, but gives the lightest of gentle tugs in invitation. She’s expecting at least a little resistance, so she’s caught by surprise when he immediately leans into her, clumsy and heavy and nearly knocking her backwards.

His trembling worsens, but his face is hidden against her shoulder and she can only guess what his expression would betray. She wraps her arms around his shoulders with a reassuring murmur; he takes it as permission to hug her back, tight and desperate as though she might disappear if he lets go.

His grip is uncomfortable and she’s sure his fingertips will leave bruises, but Lailah doesn’t object. She just runs her hands over his hot, damp back, whispering what words of comfort she can find. At some point she starts rocking gently back and forth without realizing it.

She wonders how long it’s been since someone held him like this. She wonders how long it’s been since someone _needed_ to.

She doesn’t ask him to talk. If he wants to express his feelings, he will.

She doesn’t tell him there’s no need to be upset. He has _every_ reason to be.

She doesn’t try to shush him or urge him to rest or anything else. She sits there. She holds him. She accepts his weight. She swipes a careful thumb across his cheek and isn’t surprised when it comes away wet.

This isn’t malevolence, but it’s a bed for it. Left alone, Sorey could be in real danger.

But he isn’t alone. Lailah stays.

Gradually, the ache inside her dulls, fades, and finally subsides entirely.

Sorey’s grip eventually slackens and he leans into her more heavily. His arms lower but his fingers clutch at her skirt where they fall, one last objection to being alone, and Lailah takes it to heart. She eases him down as carefully as she’s able, and once she’s made him comfortable she stays as she is, one arm around him and the other cradling his head to her chest. His unconscious response is to curl in on himself, huddling against her. His shaking has stopped, his skin is cooler than it was, and for the first time in days he looks peaceful.

Lailah gently sets her chin atop his head, stroking his hair, and sighs softly, sadly. Not for the first time, she laments how young he is—too young for the weight on his shoulders.

 _But then_ , she thinks, _they always are._


End file.
